


For Destruction Might Suffice

by ICryYouMercy (TrafalgarsLaw)



Category: 16th & 17th Century CE RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-14 03:11:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2175861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrafalgarsLaw/pseuds/ICryYouMercy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's early August, and the weather is running just a bit cold, so this must be the right moment to pour ice-water over one's friends and colleagues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Edward Alleyn

**Author's Note:**

> cakesandfail pointed out that Kit Marlowe doing the ice-bucket challenge would lead to some rather pleasing cursing, and somehow, this happened.

There are moments when Edward regrets his decision to become an actor. Most of those moments, of course, happen between jobs, when Marlowe has once again run off to do something or other (or possibly someone or other), and Shakespeare has run out of clever ideas, and Jonson is still just as firmly convinced that there is no role he could write that would be fit for Edward to play. Edward is still trying to convince him otherwise and Jonson occasionally lets him have minor parts as various guardsmen or soldiers or other background decoration. It's not much, but it serves to pay at least some of the bills, and there is always food or coffee at the theatre, so Edward tries to keep silent and out of trouble, waiting for Marlowe or Shakespeare to come up with the next big and somewhat improbable plan for success.

Today, however, the reason for his regret has nothing whatsoever to do with his lack of employment. He is employed perfectly well, doing what he does best, striding across the stage, shouting at people, getting covered in inadvisable amounts of fake blood, and generally being terrifying and loud. It's one of the things he loves about his job, being allowed to be cruel and violent as much as he pleases, without any negative consequences. It is cathartic, in a sense, but more than that, it is fun.

The thing bothering him is something entirely different. It's long past midnight, and he had been woken up this morning quite early and unexpectedly, by a roommate deciding that clearly, properly stacking dishes in cupboards was not something to be bothered with, and so all of their cups had ended in an avalanche of shards on the kitchen tiles, and now the tiles were broken, the cups were broken, and Edward had been forced to drink his coffee from a glass, and managed to burn his fingers on it. Afterwards, he had found himself having to clean the kitchen when his roommate had managed to get some of the stoneware shards embedded in his feet, and refused to see a doctor.

The remainder of his morning had been spent manhandling his roommate to the A&E, and then buying new cups (which had been a nightmare and a half all on its own) and then finishing cleaning up blood and pottery, and the remainder of last night's dishes.

He had managed to finish just in time to be late for work, even if he skipped lunch, and he really couldn't afford angering anyone right now, not when they still had more than twelve hours they would need to try and work together. He grabbed the first book he found, his old book bag, and it was only when he found himself squished into an overfull train that he realised that grabbing the first clean t-shirt he had found this morning was not a t-shirt he should be wearing to go to work. But it was too late to change it now, so the only thing he could do was try not to think about the fact that he was currently wearing a t-shirt that was quite a bit small on him, proclaiming him property of Christopher Marlowe. Shakespeare will not be pleased about any of that, neither the statement nor the implications of it, nor the implications of just how Edward must have acquired the shirt.

When he finally arrives, his shirt feels uncomfortably tight and sticky after the warmth of too many people in a train car, and the cold wind from the river drying the sweat on his skin just enough that he feels both damp and cold. He doesn't even bother trying to act surprised when the first thing said to him, before even a greeting is offered, is an order to change out of that t-shirt right now.

He goes to search the collection of costumes for something that might fit him, carelessly riffling through a rather impressive collection of shirts in various degrees of wear and tear. He pulls on the first shirt he finds in his size, unbleached linen, worn soft with age, and he doesn't bother tying the laces at the collar, wondering who this one initially belonged to, because he is fairly certain it's not a part of any costume he has worn, and there are not many people tall enough to fit it.

Of course, he isn't given much time to contemplate it, not when Shakespeare can't stop fiddling with his plays for as long as they are staging them, always changing and shifting things, trying for some elusive idea of perfection that Edward doesn't think reachable, or even desirable to begin with. There is joy to be found in the small imperfections, when he has excuses to draw the audience into the story along with him, making them participants instead of spectators, when he can manage to get them to follow him down the rabbit hole far enough that he can reach out and touch them, make the story real for just a moment, making everyone forget that it's just a wooden stage on a concrete yard.

But he was late, and he has managed to wear a shirt he knew his boss has wanted for a long, long time, but never managed to get his hands on, and so he very much isn't in a position to complain. Instead, he lets himself be shoved around on stage, bearing Shakespeare's micro-managing with as much grace as he can muster, hungry and under-caffeinated though he may be. And he does have to admit that the polishing doesn't quite come amiss, and the final version he scribbles into his script when he's finally allowed a break might probably word far, far better than any they have tried so far.

There are cookies in what passes for their break room (but is in fact just a coffee machine and whatever sweets people bring in), and it's the first thing Edward has managed to eat all day. They prove rather marvellous for his blood-sugar and his mood, but it's too much sugar on an empty stomach, making him feel rather more queasy than he'd like.

He gets something not entirely unlike a break when the first of today's plays is on, and he is embarrassingly glad that this one will be staged by a touring group, and he won't have to do much more than keep out of the way and wait it out. Usually, he would take this moment to try and get a sandwich or something, and maybe read some more about the historical context of whatever it is Marlowe is trying to inflict on him these days.

Today, he barely manages to open his book before Shakespeare shows up at his elbow, clutching a loosely bound collection of paper and a handful of coloured pencils. Edward manages not to sigh, not to let his head fall on the table, and not to shout 'no', and then proceed to ignore him.

Shakespeare might not be much of an actor, but he is the better observer of the two, and Edward realises he failed to mask his annoyance when a hand lands heavily on his shoulder.

"Bad time?"

"Bad day," Edward says, not offering any further explanation.

Shakespeare is silent for a moment, apparently considering various approaches to this particular problem, before he asks: "Have you eaten anything today?"

Edward just shakes his head, not bothering to say anything to that. Because of course he hadn't, he doesn't eat when he is busy doing other things, and cookies don't count, and now that he thinks about it, there hadn't been much of a dinner last night, and he doesn't even try to remember the last time he had a decent meal.

There is a sandwich in front of him, and a cup of chocolate milk, when he finally looks up. Across from him, typing distractedly on his phone, is his boss, looking something between concerned and angry. "You still need to eat, you know."

Edward would usually complain about such a level of familiarity, but he has been given carbohydrates and something to drink, which will serve perfectly well to pardon even harsher transgressions than this one. He shrugs, and starts eating, not checking what, precisely, he is currently putting into his mouth, and barely even tasting it, washing it down with chocolate milk and trying to pretend he wasn't hungry at all.

Shakespeare, meanwhile, starts telling him all about this one new and brilliant idea he had, about that play he wrote, the one with the king, where everyone dies, and Edward listens carefully, and nods every now and again, and tries his level best to pretend to know what Shakespeare is talking about. There is something about blood and witches and a prophecy, and apart from that one detail about no man of woman born, it would sound almost reasonable, were it not for the very, very prominent witches. Edward is never quite sure what to make of the witches, and neither it seems is anyone else, but Shakespeare insists on having them, with no perceptible irony whatsoever. Someone should probably try and put a stop to it, but that someone is not, never has been and never will be Edward.

So he sits, and nods occasionally, and tries to keep his boss from writing yet another play that will either turn out impossible to stage, or possible to stage but will cause several newspaper articles to be written about today's youth and unnecessary violence and video games and corruption of the innocent. Edward never was quite certain how his acting should corrupt a group of people who delight in blood and gore as much as children and teenagers do, but he would still happily do without any of those editorials and concerned letters demanding that he think of the children.

There doesn't seem to be too much blood or violence to this particular idea, and he can't see any reason to discourage it being written as a fair copy, and by the time Shakespeare is done dumping information on him, his head hurts from exhaustion and caffeine withdrawal. They have no more than about an hour to clean up the stage; make everything ready for this evening's performance; find his costume; try to put on make-up that will be somewhat water-proof, and try not to accidentally make himself look yet more exhausted than he actually is. He manages to keep somewhat calm by continuous reminders that in about four or five hours' time, he would be allowed to go home, and take a proper shower, and maybe even get some sleep, and things would be fine.

Half a moment before he has to go on stage, there is a hand on his shoulder, and he knows his people well enough to recognise Marlowe before any words are exchanged.

"Careful with your voice, can't have you hoarse by midnight." Edward is told, and that's when he finally remembers that tonight he won't be allowed to go home after the first run, and there won't be any sort of proper shower, and there might not even be properly dry clothing, not with how little time there is. He wishes he could sit down, just for a moment, to collect his thoughts and try and figure out a way to get through another six hours of performing, when Marlowe pushes him forward, and instead, he has to concentrate not to mess up his entrance by stumbling.

The air is damp with the promise of rain, and the wooden walls just high enough for the wind to break and twist over them, and it's fine, it's all of it perfectly fine; he falls into his role easily, not even noticing the steady drop in temperature since the afternoon, until they get to that one scene, the one Marlowe had insisted was entirely necessary, Edward believed to be utterly gratuitous, and everyone else had observed that it did seem to be granting them a certain amount of publicity and attention they probably needed rather desperately, when Shakespeare's next idea features witches rather prominently, and Marlowe still seems intent on simply making everything and everyone in his plays as queer as humanly possible.

It doesn't really matter, though, when he is covered in sticky, sluggishly drying theatre blood, and the leather armguards are starting to stick and stiffen uncomfortably, and he had been careless enough to settle for a lighter armour, a shirt instead of a breastplate, and he hadn't been given a chance to try and take it off before someone had upended a bucket of theatre blood over his head. There is a sort of clumsiness and tentativeness to his movements, constricted as they are by his clothes, and while the sensation is anything but pleasant, he thinks that it might actually be working rather well, considering the plot.

He still has to suppress a sigh of relief when he is finally alone on stage, trying to remove just enough of the leather that he might actually give the impression of washing himself clean of all that blood. He had hated it in the beginning, standing with everyone's eyes and attention fixed on him, and then being made to undress, and then having several litres of water poured over his head, simply to give people an opportunity to shamelessly ogle a wet, half-naked man. Of course, once he had been told that there were people coming to rewatch the play, just for another chance of ogling him, he had decided that maybe it wasn't so bad, after all. At least it made him feel a little bit more confident about his body.

The water pouring down on him is just lukewarm, but it still feels rather heavenly when night is slowly falling and the air is getting colder and colder, especially as he can wash off the worst of the blood covering him, and he feels almost sorry when the scene is over, and he has to go find vaguely clean clothing to change into. There isn't much time for washing and dressing and fixing his make-up, and even if there were, a washcloth and no soap is just not enough to clean away all the sticky residue from the stage blood, and while everyone else might be satisfied once the colour is gone, it's rather unpleasant on the actors, especially when wearing long sleeves that tend to stick to any remaining blood.

But he has been doing this for weeks already, and another night of sticking sleeves is not exactly going to be a big deal, even on a day like this, when he is already far more tired than he would usually be at this point.

And he is going to die at the end, after all, and there will be yet more blood, blood he won't be able to wash off for rather a long time, so it could always be more unpleasant. Or at least, that is what he tells himself until he finds himself hanging from the roof by a set of ropes carefully tied around his ankles, the sensation as discomfiting now as it was the first time, and then there is the cold metal of a blade running over his chest, and his Aufidius is leaning close enough to kiss him, and while the blood inevitably running into his nose and ears is rather much of a deterrent against any possible stirrings of arousal, Edward has still found himself wishing that the scene would end in a kiss, instead of this abrupt dismissal that feels like being left high and dry every single time.

He is left hanging for several minutes, trying not to move, and not to breathe too noticeably, while he waits for the inevitable end to come. And then, finally, the rope is cut, and he is desperately trying to blink away enough of the blood that he can dance without stepping on anyone's feet or falling over, which is one of these things that never seem to get any easier, no matter how often he repeats the experience.

He gets through it without having to rub his eyes clean, or any embarrassing incidents due to lack of vision, and he would be prepared to count it as win, all in all, if it weren't for the fact that there is only about half an hour before the next performance starts, and he is still in rather desperate need of a shower.

The way his luck runs today, though, he finds himself held up just long enough that he has to share the showers with Richard, which would be a rather terrible idea all on its own, but it's close to midnight after a day that has already been far too long, and what little defences Edward might have had have been worn down slowly and steadily since roughly six o'clock in the morning. So he turns his back to Richard, tries to wash as quickly as possible, and tries not to think too hard about the fact that he seems to have ended up naked and wet in the same room with the one man who will never return his hopeless affection.

He is almost proud of himself when he manages to get himself dried off and into his still ever-so-slightly damp costume. Then, of course, Richard has to ruin everything, being concerned and professional, while also being naked and dripping wet, and Edward, for the first time today, finds himself glad for just how tired he is, because if nothing else, it does prevent him from giving himself away in the most embarrassing manner possible, when Richard is looking at him, and asking if he is okay, and touching his shoulder, and then leaning closer in concern, and it takes all of Edward's remaining self-control and energy not to jerk back.

"I'm fine, I'm fine, just tired. Bad day today."

Richard keeps looking at him for a while longer, his expression strangely soft and careful for a man whose standard method of solving problems is to shout at them, and beat them with broomsticks until they go away. It's just barely enough time for him to get dried and dressed and on stage, afterwards, and Edward is desperately glad for the rain, the wind, and the darkness hiding a multitude of sins and inattentions when the play finally starts.

He is just a bit distracted, still, his exhaustion mixing with the desperate energy the audience is bringing to the show, and there is a strange sort of electric madness running through the air; it's easy to force laughter as much as tears or shouts, and he finds himself enjoying the atmosphere, the chaos, the receptiveness this audience brings. It's strange, clearly, but strange in an incredibly satisfying manner.

And then, of course, there is that one scene, and while there is a roof over most parts of the stage, the dampness and cold aren't held back by it in the least, so Edward finds himself rather reluctant to remove his clothes, and then to let someone pour water over him. The only reason he manages to motivate himself, manages to not try and cut the scene short is the fact that at least, it tends to be lukewarm water, and therefore will be rather more agreeable than the rain.

He is proven wrong, of course, in the most disagreeable way, when someone apparently decides that maybe ice-water might prove rather more entertaining. He bites down on his curses, and tries not to shiver, and washes himself roughly and hastily, the cold water surprisingly effective against the stickiness of the stage blood, and he is almost starting to enjoy himself when someone decides to add ice cubes to the deal, and those things hurt when dropped on his head and shoulders. He knows he can't really leave now, can't afford to disappoint yet more people than he already disappointed today, and so he smiles, and bears it, and tries his best to ignore the ice and the cold, and clenches his teeth to stop them from chattering too much.

When he is finally allowed to stumble off stage, Marlowe is waiting for him, handing him the biggest and fluffiest towel Edward has ever seen, and he takes it with a nod and a slight smile, and doesn't say anything. He manages to get himself mostly dried off, and puts on drier trousers and a drier shirt, and tries to hold still while his make-up is being fixed.

His thoughts are helplessly spinning out of control, though, and he can't help but worry, because he knows Marlowe, and he knows what a gesture like that means. He can read it the way other people read books, parts of it a reminder to be more careful, but most of it a helpless revenge for upsetting Shakespeare, even though that was Marlowe's mistake as much as Edward's, and he is fairly certain that there is a lesson to be found in it, about not sleeping with one's boss, and then there is a strange sort of penalty for having brought into common awareness the one thing they had been so good at never, ever mentioning, discussing, or even thinking about. He is fairly certain that the problem is not so much the attraction running between almost all of them to some extent, but the loneliness and despair that leads to bad decisions and one-night-stands and their constant inability to keep a relationship even halfways steady and functional. Instead they spiral and fall into one another, clinging to whoever is closest, and hoping desperately for summer to be over so that things might slow down a bit, and they might be able to catch just enough sleep to think properly and clearly for once.

But it's still the beginning of August, and the season is going to run into October before it will be cold enough to close the open theatre for winter, and with only half the space, there will be only half the performances, and possibly some space to breathe yet.

And then, of course, before Edward can quite finish that train of thought, he finds himself on stage again, exhaustion definitively taking its toll, and he finds himself leaning closer to Richard than he probably should, relying on him to keep the both of them upright and functioning, and he is desperately glad that the play, especially this second part of it, permits, almost demands, that sort of physicality and closeness.

By the time he finds himself strung up by his feet, blood rushing to his head, the inevitable headache settling as pressure far more than pain in his temples, and then Richard is leaning just a bit too close, the blade running over his chest more of a caress than anything else, and he whimpers helplessly against the sensation, and then just hangs there, exhaustion relaxing him more than any conscious effort ever could, and that's, of course, the moment when Richard leans in to kiss him. It's soft and delicate, and faintly sweet with the stage blood running over his face, and Edward can't lean into it, and isn't in a position to reciprocate, and when Richard draws back, he realises just how cold the night is, now that no one is touching him anymore.

And hanging there, waiting for the inevitable dancing to start, he takes a silent and determined vow to get his revenge on Christopher Marlowe.


	2. Best Served Cold: Christopher Marlowe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to cantankerousquince for the beta! You're incredibly awesome, okay. Thanks!

Saturday doesn’t start well for Kit. Parts, of course, is the same problem everyone else seems to be having, three performances in a single day, and he doesn't have to act in any of them, but it's still his theatre, in a sense, and though it might not be any of his plays on today, Will still relies on him for any number of minor and major tasks, and so Kit has been at the theatre since roughly five in the afternoon. Cleaning the stage after the afternoon's performance, adding and removing various stairs and ramps to and from the stage, and he isn't entirely sure what Will is trying to achieve with the decorations and set up, but since it involves mostly wooden panelling with various patterns painted on it, and very little else, Kit doesn't mind too much.

It goes as smoothly as one could hope for and by eight o'clock Will is still a bit busy having a jealous meltdown; Edward seems to be having some sort of minor existential crisis, and Richard, the last time Kit has seen him, was reading some book about polygamous relationships, and Kit did not need to know this.

He goes to make himself a cup of coffee, and then settles backstage with a notebook and pen in futile hopes of getting some work done between fixing various people's make-up, and organising props, and making sure everyone and everything goes where and when they are supposed to be. It's fun, but it is taxing, especially as the night runs on, and people get tired and careless, and Kit tries to keep his eyes on everything all at once, eventually resorting to simply shoving people where they need to go, occasionally assisted by whispered threats of violence.

After the first run, Edward looks ready to fall asleep on his feet, and Kit worries for a second that he might not make it through another performance, when he notices Richard stepping just a little closer, not enough for Edward to notice even in his state of questionable wakefulness, but enough that Kit will see, and know that things are being taken care of.

He goes to make yet more coffee, and then realises that there is still blood splattered all over the stage, and it takes him far too long to find the necessary supplies to clean it up, and so by the time he gets around to it, most of it has dried already, and he wants to scream, or maybe simply ask Edward to spend another night at his place, but he knows that those are both equally terrible ideas, on a surprising number of levels, and so he tries to focus on his work, and wonders distantly what happened to the person they hired to do this sort of work. There is some vague and distant memory of an incident involving newspaper articles and ruined reputations, and Kit decides not to dwell on something that he seems to have gone to a rather lot of effort to forget about.

And then Richard and Edward come back from what they claim to have been taking a shower, in spite of it having taken far longer than any sort of reasonable shower ever should, but Kit bites down on any sarcastic comment when he sees just how unbalanced Edward seems, and how worriedly Richard is still looking at him. He would offer to help (or to get everyone drunk and hope for the best) in any other circumstances, but there is no time, and pushing now might break Edward in a way they can't afford during summer. So he applies make-up as quickly as he can, far less than for the last performance, trusting the darkness to hide the mistakes he doesn't have the time or energy to even out.

He watches them stumble on stage, and hopes that Richard will be able to balance instead of overpower Edward, and as much as he admires Will's skill in crafting such carefully balanced, frail and intricate relationships, they tend to put a strain on the actors that Ben's sarcasm and mockery and Kit's own, more straightforward harshness avoid. It makes for wonderful theatre when executed well, but it just doesn't serve when the actors are running as close to their limit as Edward currently seems to be.

Kit watches worriedly for just long enough to realise that something needs to be done, because even Richard, for all his trying, can't keep a balance against nothing. It's what some people might call cruel, but the show must go on, and Edward needs to be awake for it. And there needs to be some sort of reminder, for Edward as much as for everyone else, that some things should be kept secret, not because no one knows, but because no one wishes to talk about it. Balance is a difficult thing, and balance in the absence of stability even more so, and the last thing any of them needs is a falling out still almost three months from the end of the season.

So he inflicts a cold shower on Edward, and as much as he is worried and exhausted, the fact that Edward keeps going as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened still fills him with a sort of reluctant pride for his actors. And because such charitable and calm emotions are not something a man needs in the middle of the night, he decides to add some ice cubes to the mix, making it clear that this is not a mistake on his part, but a deliberate choice, and as such should serve as warning to stay awake and concentrate, and not to mess up any further.

Afterwards, of course, he makes sure that there is a towel for Edward, and goes to force the coffee machine to warm some milk, so that by the time intermission rolls around, there will be hot chocolate for his favourite frozen actor.

***

Kit makes himself some more coffee and settles down to wait for the scene to end, so that he can do some more shoving people around, and retouch ruined make-up, and wish desperately that Will might stop being jealous at some point and do his job. Because Kit shouldn't be here, shouldn't be doing this, he has work to do, and Coriolanus will be on again tomorrow, noon, but there is one of Kit's own plays on at six, and the blocking to some of the scenes needs adjusting yet. Edward is the only one who can keep it straight, and he realises what they are currently demanding of Edward and Richard, and he wonders if he could fix the blocking by making Will and Tom stand in for them, because then at least someone might get enough sleep to get through tomorrow without murdering someone.

He could have sworn he just closed his eyes for a second, but when he opens them again, the sky is turning grey with the morning sun, and someone is using his chest as a pillow, with another someone apparently having decided he would make a good teddy bear. But they did find him a pillow, so his head isn't lying on the wooden floorboards, and there are two different blankets thrown over the three of them in a rather careless fashion.

He tries to stretch without accidentally waking either Richard or Edward, figuring that they would need the rest rather more than he did. He isn't exactly uncomfortable, and the room is still nicely quiet, but he is both too nervous and too well-rested to fall asleep again, and both his phone and notebook are far out of reach, as is Edward's book about medieval conjurors, so he tries to heave a sigh against the weight of two people using him as a pillow and cuddly toy, and then resigns himself to several more hours of boredom before he could reasonably start considering waking his actors again.

He has started counting the panelling on the ceiling when he hears the door creaking, and then soft footsteps of someone either trying to be quiet or trying not to spill something. Kit isn't quite certain what would be more worrying, especially as it can't be much later than about five or six, and everyone should have gone home roughly two hours ago. He doesn't turn his gaze from the ceiling, though, and wonders if he should just try for denial and hope that whatever problem is currently approaching him will just leave if he ignores it for long enough.

Instead, Will starts kicking his feet where they are sticking out from under the blanket, and when Kit eventually looks at him, he looks as helpless as Kit currently feels, but he is holding two cups of coffee, and smiling tentatively, so whatever it is, it can't be too bad.

"Good morning," Will says, his voice uneven enough to let Kit know it's anything but.

"Morning," he replies, and after a moment's consideration, "Thanks for the blankets."

Will shrugs at him, and gestures with the coffee, and Kit resigns himself to acrobatics before coffee. It takes quite some patience, and more force than he would like, but Richard doesn't do much more than grumble at Kit at being forced to sleep on an actual pillow instead of Kit's chest, and Edward goes without complaint, simply turning back to replace his suddenly missing teddy bear as soon as Kit manages to extract himself from between them.

Kit takes a moment to adjust the blankets again, wondering just how much of a toll last night had taken on everyone and how long it would be before anyone would agree to trying it again, and then there is a cup of coffee being shoved into his hands, and Will is dragging him somewhere outdoors, into the bright morning light and the cool air drifting from the river, and he is far more awake far more quickly than he would like, still clutching his coffee like a lifeline.

"You don't have to do this." Will tells him.

"Do what?"

Will gestures behind them, to the theatre. "Alleyn."

"Edward? What about him?"

Will looks at him. Will looks at him in a way that he is fairly certain should tell him something, but doesn't.

"What else do you expect me to do when you're in your office sulking, and everyone who should be around helping to stage this properly has left at some point in early June because apparently we were corrupting the innocent, and also unorganised, working unreasonable hours, and prone to getting into embarrassing situations?"

"What?"

"I have no intention of doing your job, or his, but if you're not around, and he is falling asleep on his feet, and Richard is busy trying to keep him conscious through six hours of bloodbaths and shouting, I don't really have a choice, do I?"

"That's… that's not what I meant."

"Oh? Then what did you mean? I can't try and be friends with him? I can't try to make sure he's okay to do his job? I can't talk to him at all?"

"That's not what I was trying to say!"

Kit opens his mouth, fully intent on shouting yet more, because he's angry now, and Will doesn't get to do this to him, doesn't get to chastise him for trying to keep this show going, doesn't get to tell Kit what he is or isn't supposed to do, when Kit is currently the only one actually doing anything at all, but Will seems to have other ideas, a decisive hand-gesture and a sharp glare enough to make Kit snap his mouth shut quickly enough that he accidentally bites his tongue.

"I know you slept together. I don't mind. Just don't give him other people's clothes. Especially not your boyfriend's clothes. And don’t try to punish him for it by making him get pneumonia, either. It's petty, and it won't get anyone any further."

"Boyfriend?"

"Is he not?"

"Kyd?"

"Who else?"

"Boyfriend?"

"Kit!"

"He isn't! Not like that!"

"And yet, he owns a t-shirt proclaiming him yours?"

Kit sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, and tries not to hit Will. "It's a joke, and he's not my boyfriend, and I'm not cheating on him, and he knows I've slept with Edward, and he's okay with it. And I didn't give that shirt to Edward, he did."

"Oh."

"Yes, oh. Is there anything else?"

Will shrugs, and then blushes, and doesn't say anything.

Kit turns to go back inside, where it's warm, and where there'll be more coffee, when he realises what Will just told him.

"So you weren't having some sort of jealous breakdown yesterday?"

"Jealous breakdown?"

"You locked yourself into your office, and left me trying to sort of a bunch of exhausted actors and more stage blood than any play should ever have!"

"You tried to turn Alleyn into an icicle because you thought I was jealous about him sleeping with you?"

"Well, you seemed…"

"Christopher Marlowe. We do not, under any circumstances, pour ice-water over people because we think someone might be jealous of them. That is not an acceptable practice, and you really owe him an apology now. And, last but not least, if I want something or someone taken care of, I can do it myself, no need for your interference."

Kit is left standing by the river, staring at the sun's reflection on the dirty brown water, and wonders where he had just gone wrong. He had been so certain that Will was… that Will would, or maybe that Kit would, and they would be good together, he knows that much at least, but apparently Will was worried about Kyd, and not the least bit interested, and now Edward is going to be angry for last night's stunt, and Richard will be angry because Kit upset his best friend, and Will is angry because Kit jumped to conclusions, and Kyd will be angry because Kit made a mess of everything again, and if he needs to go back inside, and get through a full mornings rehearsal and fixing that damn blocking of that damn scene, he is going to need all the back-up he can get.

And he knows it's a terrible decision, it's the most terrible of all the terrible decisions, especially as his phone cheerfully informs him that it's still only a quarter to six, but he doesn't really have a choice, or at least, most of the other choices he has would be terrible, so he dials as quickly as he can, doesn't look at the number too closely, and most of all pretends that he is not doing what he is about to do.

"Benjamin Jonson, answering for Thomas Nashe, how can I help you?"

And Kit freezes. There is nothing he can say now, there is no possible way he could ask Jonson for help on this, perfect and well-adjusted Jonson who gets brilliant reviews of his plays, who never has to face any embarrassing stories about break-ups, Jonson who is polite and restrained and well-educated, and who is so far above all their petty and helpless disagreements and dramatics that he sometimes seems to exist in an entirely different world altogether.

"Hello? Is anyone here? What's wrong?"

Kit manages to make some sort of sound he will deny forever to have been a whimper, and still doesn't say anything.

"Christopher Marlowe?" Jonson eventually says, his voice entirely even, and still somehow full of disbelief.

"Nashe has my name in his phone?" Kit asks, entirely on reflex.

Jonson laughs at that.

"Don't worry, he doesn't. Your name is given as 'that gay wanker'. I just figured it might get a response of some sort."

Kit nods before realising that Jonson won't see that, and then it's already too late to say anything without seeming weird, and he had just wanted to ask Nashe for some emotional support, and not get into any more awkward conversations before breakfast, and he doesn't need or want any of the inevitable mockery and scorn. He debates simply hanging up and pretending he never called, but he knows that that won't end at all well, either, so he just waits, and wonders distantly if maybe, this will turn out to have all been a dream, someday.

"You are, of course, aware that I can't help you if you won't talk to me?"

"You can't help me anyway."

"But Tom can?"

"Maybe?"

Jonson sighs at that. "Will you at least tell me what, precisely, I am supposed to wake him up for at six o'clock on a Saturday morning?"

"I fucked up," Kit says.

"I was assuming as much, yes."

"I fucked up a lot, and everyone is angry, and everyone will hate me now, and I need Tom to come and get drunk with me and pretend it never happened."

"At six in the morning?"

"It's not as if this day could get any worse. Time doesn't really matter, now."

Jonson takes a deep breath, and Kit turns off his brain, hoping that maybe ignoring the mocking might make it go away. "Where are you right now?"

"Southbank, at the theatre."

"Good. Stay where you are, don't go anywhere, don't talk to anyone, don't do anything stupid. Give me half an hour. How do you take your coffee?"

"Warm, preferably."

"Milk? Sugar? Chocolate? Cream? Soymilk? Alcohol?"

Kit actually finds himself laughing at that. "If you won't let me get drunk with Nashe, sugar'll have to do. As much as possible."

"You are aware that that would be roughly a pound, in half a pint of warm coffee?"

"Sold."

Jonson sighs, less deeply and slightly amused this time, and says, "Seriously, don't go anywhere", and then hangs up the phone.

There is laughter bubbling up in Kit's chest, and he knows himself well enough to know that it would be on the wrong side of hysterical and over-tired, and so he instead, he sits down where he's standing, turning his back to the river, curls up into as small a ball as possible, with his head between his knees, and tries to breathe calmly until the urge to freak out goes away again. He knows he's not being reasonable, here, and he knows that the worst thing that could happen would be some sort of revenge-prank from Edward, but knowing and believing are far from the same thing, and the realisation that he's gotten it wrong, and he wasn't clever enough, wasn't paying close enough attention, wasn't doing his job, either as a playwright or as a boss, and there simply is no point trying to talk himself out of this, he'll just have to wait for Jonson, and hope that his mind will be stable enough to parse the mocking into some sort of assistance.

"Panic attacks are what I would consider doing something stupid," Jonson tells him, and Kit looks up, tries to disentangle himself, only to realise that his fingers have started cramping, and there will probably be bruises from where he had been holding on to his arms in an effort to keep still, and not hurt himself, and not get into yet more trouble.

"I can't exactly help it, can I?" Kit says, and he does try to make it loud or at least offended, but instead, it comes out more of a helpless plea.

"You could get professional help."

"Sure. You paying?"

"You could talk to somebody."

"I tried that! You didn't want to wake him up!"

"You tried to get drunk. There's a difference."

"I'm not doing this sober."

"You are now."

And with that, Jonson hands him a cup of coffee, and then sits down across from him, studying him carefully while Kit manages to burn his tongue in an attempt to consume as much coffee and sugar as possible in the shortest amount of time imaginable.

"You are aware that this stuff tastes disgusting?" Jonson eventually asks. "And it's only six packets of sugar. I wouldn't even want to consider what an entire pound would do."

"It's breakfast," Kit tells him.

Jonson laughs at that. "Tom and Kyd said they would organise sandwiches, and maybe some fruit. You'll get breakfast."

Kit shrugs, and keeps drinking his coffee. He can play calm well enough to fool Jonson, but there is no way he could eat anything at the moment, much less keep it down.

"What happened?"

"I fucked up."

"You said that already."

"Not saying anything more."

"Why?"

"I can do without the mocking, thanks."

"Mocking?"

Kit just makes a face at that. Not much else he can say, not when Jonson wants to play naïve and innocent.

"You call Tom, at six in the morning, more than halfway into a panic attack, practically begging for someone to come to your rescue, and you think that the first thing I would do is try and make fun of you?"

"It's what you do best."

"But there is no skill in kicking a man when he's down. Not much of a challenge, is it?"

"If you say so."

"Oh for fuck's sake, Christopher Marlowe. I don't care what the fuck is wrong with you, or what the fuck you think is wrong with you, but you're well past the age where sulking and clumsy secrecy was an acceptable solution to anything. You tell me what the fuck is wrong, and then we'll go and fix it, because you have a play on this afternoon, and if Kyd is to be trusted, you still haven't worked out the blocking properly, so you don't have any fucking time to sit here and sulk at me."

"What do you want?"

"What do I…" Jonson seems momentarily speechless, which Kit is guessing is a first for him. "This is not about what I want, you fuckwit. You have a goddamn job to do, and a life to live, and your friends are worried about you to the point where they're trying to make sure you won't be left to your own devices for too long, and you're asking what I want?"

"Yes."

Jonson leans forwards, his body-language vaguely threatening, and Kit forces himself to meet his gaze, and not to betray any nervousness or fear, when Jonson starts speaking, his tone even and calm, and his words carefully chosen and placed.

"What I want, Mister Marlowe, is for you to survive this season with your mind and body intact, and without any major breakdowns or injuries. What I want is for us to have a full winter's time to settle and figure out where we went wrong, so that next spring, we can do this without worrying whose funeral we'll be going to next. What I want is for my friends to be happy and safe and healthy. What I want is for you not to fuck up the only chance we are ever going to get to make this life worth living. We can do better than this, remember?"

"Beautiful little speech. And what do you really want?"

"For my friends to survive this summer. Please."

And there is nothing Kit can say to that. Because Jonson doesn't ask for things, and he doesn't say please, and he might be a bastard, but he is nothing if not heartlessly honest. "You know I can't promise that," he eventually says.

"But will you try?"

"My very best." Kit tells him, and then follows Jonson back to the theatre, because there really is nothing else he could do now, not without disappointing yet more people, and he wonders distantly if this is just a coincidence, or if Ben Jonson, of all people, just played him like no one ever did before.

***

Inside, Will seems to have calmed down again, sitting on the floor next to the coffee machine, reading one of Kit's books, while Kyd and Nashe, either for reasons of proximity or tiredness, are currently using Will's thighs as pillows, and Nashe, at least, has already managed to fall asleep, while Kyd seems busy dissecting a sandwich. Kit doesn't ask.

"Everything okay?" Kyd asks him, not even looking up.

At that, Will finally looks up from his book, picking up the next available and flat object to serve as a bookmark, and then says, "Tell us these things."

"I should be okay." he says.

"He's not, though," Jonson adds, voice still perfectly calm and even.

"I'm sorry." Will says.

Kit shrugs. "I deserved that. For jumping to conclusions, at least, and probably for leaving you short a lead actor."

"It still was a pretty shitty thing to say."

"What, telling me to mind my own business? Or telling me not to interfere with your relationships or lack of them? Or maybe being just a bit pissed off that I don't even have the self-control that you'd expect of an average teenager?"

"Kit," Kyd mumbles, and it would be a nice warning, if it weren't for the fact that he has somehow managed to get mustard on his eyebrows, and still seems entirely baffled by the existence of a sandwich.

"Okay, so maybe it wasn't so much what I said as what I didn't say, but that doesn't change the fact that it was pretty shitty."

"And what didn't you say, then?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe that I kind of appreciate your attacks of protective jealousy? Or the fact that Alleyn's reaction was pretty funny. And I didn't tell you that I'm really grateful that you did my job last night. Also, if I hadn't been too busy being a sleepy, self-involved wanker, I might have remembered to tell you that I'm not actually angry at you, but if Alleyn wants his revenge, he is going to get it. Oh, and there's breakfast."

Kit isn't entirely sure how to react to any of that, but at least Kyd saves him from having to say anything by choosing this precise moment to throw yet another sandwich at Kit, this one mercifully undissected. "What about that blocking you wanted to work on?" he asks, still not looking up from his task.

"I'm not going to wake up Edward after last night. If you want to try, you're welcome to, though."

At that Kyd actually looks up, just to make sure that everyone can see him rolling his eyes. "Blocking. You don't need your actors for that, any reasonable stand-in will do."

"I'm not…" Kit starts, and then realises that he isn't entirely sure what he isn't. He is fairly certain there is something preventing him from getting any sort of useful work done today, but he can't quite remember anymore.

"You're not… what? Able to get over yourself and do your damn job?" Jonson asks, still in that eternally calm and even voice of his, and Kit would very much like to hurt him.

"He's not currently in a frame of mind where any sort of useful or productive work is going to happen, mostly on account of me being a dickwit, earlier, but also on account of it being not yet seven in the morning, and him not having gotten any sleep before roughly two last night. Your judgement is neither required nor wanted."

"Which is what I just said."

"No. You were being an arse about it. No one tried to stab you do death, so maybe shut up about things you don't understand, please?"

"Says you," Nashe mumbles, face still hidden under the far too large sweatshirt Will is wearing, and not giving any other indication of actually being awake.

"Says me? Ben? What aren't you telling us?" Will finally asks, voice carefully neutral.

"Says I," Jonson corrects him, almost absentmindedly. "There are various things I am not telling you, but this particular one was simply not worth mentioning. We had more important concerns at that time."

"Ah, yes, no big deal, really, not worth the bother of saying anything," Nashe says, finally turning to lie on his back, though still not moving his head away from Will's thigh. "Somebody stuck ten inches of metal into your thigh, and you still can't stand properly in the wrong weather, and you still limp when you think no one is looking, but really, it was just a minor annoyance. And he was only trying to kill you, after all. That must happen to everyone once a week, no need to make a fuss. Anyone ever tell you you're an incredible arsehole?"

"Jonson?" Kit finally ventures, after the silence has stretched rather a bit too long for comfort. He isn't sure what else to say, but there is something both comforting and shameful in this information, and he wishes now that he hadn't been so suspicious of Jonson earlier.

"Technically speaking, I think his intention was gelding me, not killing me."

"Gelding you?" Will asks.

"Apparently, I slept with his girlfriend."

"Apparently?"

"Don't ask," Nashe says. "He hasn't gotten properly laid for years, according to himself. Even if he never mentions it again, I'll have heard far too much about his dick for a single lifetime."

"So it's one of those things you did that we're all happier not knowing about?" Kyd asks, rubbing mustard away from his eyebrows.

"Very probably, yes."

"You feeling any better, Kit?" Kyd eventually asks, hastily eating the remains of his carefully dissected sandwich.

"Somewhat, yes."

"So, what are we doing now? You think you could get any work done?"

Kit shakes his head, and tries not to feel like a fool for letting people notice just how breakable he feels, these days.

"Anything else?" Nashe asks. "Because otherwise, I'd like to sleep some more, thanks."

"Depends on whether you are looking for a distraction or a serious and useful occupation," Jonson says.

"Either'll be fine. Early night tonight, I just don't want to mess with my sleep rhythm too much," Will says, one hand still holding his book, the other one petting Nashe's hair.

And that's probably the weirdest thing about Nashe, now that Kit notices. The fact that he will happily have a major gay freak-out when anyone even thinks about flirting with him, but he is by far the most cuddly and physically affectionate one of them all, and he will, without any hesitation or embarrassment, demand hugs or cuddles if he feels neglected. Kit loves and hates him for it in equal measure, never entirely certain how to react, and sometimes wishing he could do the same, could ask Kyd to let him share his bed when he is woken up by yet another nightmare, could demand someone hold him when he feels like he might just shatter to piece at the least provocation. Instead, he shoves away anyone who might get too close, and eats far too much sugar, and hopes desperately his mind might want to start working properly again at some point in the near future.

"You might want to re-consider the blocking of the final scene of your play, if you plan for your lead actors to kiss, then." Ben says.

"If I plan what?" Will asks, dropping his book.

"They what?" Kit says, at the same time, because clearly, he did miss something when he fell asleep halfway through last night's performance.

"I assume that was not your intention, then?"

"I didn't think it would work."

"It does, but the sightlines are not ideal, and I'm not quite certain the necessary adjustments are possible."

"You could just have them properly kissing, then people'd notice, too, and I could sleep some more," Nashe suggests.

"That would most certainly not work. One of them is supposed to be killing… oh." Jonson says, and Kit can't help but giggle at that.

"Le petit mort, you're suggesting?" Will asks. "I'm not sure that would work, not without ruining the entire tone of the play."

"I'm not suggesting it, I just realised that it might not be the best objection to serious kissing."

"Did you know your French is fairly terrible?" Kyd asks.

Will hits him. Kyd sticks out his tongue at him, and last winter, such an exchange would inevitably have ended in kissing, but now, Will just smiles at him, and then turns back to Jonson. "So, your idea of a distraction is to string up one of us by the ankles, and have someone else snog him, and do this at various places on stage, until we find a place where it would be visible to most of the audience?"

"It could probably be done without excessive kissing."

"Did you consider that maybe Edward or Richard might not want a repeat performance?" Kit asks.

"Neither of them is that bad a kisser…" Kyd says, now busy investigating Will's hand. He should have stayed at university, Kit thinks, done something with science, gotten a proper job, instead of this. Because as much as he loves it, it's not a safe place for anyone, and especially not for Kyd, who's still as painfully innocent as he was the first day, and yet, every now and again, he will say these things, and Kit feels like someone pulled out the floor from under him, because Kyd, his Kyd, isn't supposed to go around kissing people, and especially not Will's actors.

"That's not usually the relevant point when considering whether something should be done on stage," Ben says, almost gently. "And it's not always the relevant point when considering whether you would like to kiss someone."

"Then tell me, oh knowing one, what would be?"

"Whether we really want to make this look like a terrible adaptation of Spiderman, of course," Nashe says.

"And whether it is actually physically possible. Because I'm fairly certain unless you turn the whole scene by roughly a hundred and eighty degrees, there is absolutely no way to get the sightlines at all workable. And that would probably require a sort of make-up magic we don't have access to here." Kit says, and he thinks that this should end the discussion, because there really isn't much else that could be said, now.

"We could skip the disembowelling, and simply have him cut Coriolanus' throat," Kyd says.

"But that would ruin the whole effect," Will says. "It's no fun unless there is disembowelling. This play needs gore, and cutting someone's throat doesn't deliver, not after a set-up like that."

"You could just reduce the level of blood in the entire play?"

"The whole point of this is to make people really, really uncomfortably aroused. Can't do that without copious amounts of violence and gore. You might as well make him just stage an entirely different play altogether." Kit says.

"Alternatively, we could just try it out." Jonson says, already turning towards the door.

Kit follows him, because there is no other possible way to shut up Kyd and Nashe once they decide to disagree on something, and it might yet kill a few hours before he has to face Edward again.

***

There are still bloodstains on the stage, and Kit realises, rather belatedly, that apparently, last night no one had been in any mood or condition to clean them up, and now it will impossible to completely remove them, short of replacing the wooden boards. And for some reason, this is the first thing on this terrible day that actually makes him smile. Because now he (and Jonson, apparently), aren't the only ones who have exchanged blood for scars just for the sake of roughly ten by twenty metres of wooden boards and a concrete yard.

"You don't really give a fuck about this whole kissing thing, do you?" Kit asks, when he notices that Jonson has just sat down leaning against one of the pillars and seems rather intent on falling asleep.

"Do you?"

Kit shrugs. "It might be interesting?"

"What for? Finding how much sexual frustration everyone here can stand before one of us snaps and kills somebody?"

"You don't think…" Kit says, and then finishes the phrase by way of illustrative gestures.

"I try to avoid contemplating any of this too closely. It's rather unlikely I will be lucky a second time, and Tom knows how to handle a knife."

"It wasn't him the first time, was it?" Kit ask, honestly worried for a moment.

Jonson laughs. "He wouldn't have hesitated to get the job done."

"Oh." Kit says, and then falls silent, adjusting his idea about how Tom Nashe functions.

"Why, precisely, is your boyfriend shouting at Richard about disembowelling people?" Edward asks, stumbling on the stage, still looking more than half asleep, and dragging one of his blankets along with him.

"Tom isn't my boyfriend, and I'm assuming any shouting is happening because no one is sufficiently awake to be thinking clearly yet." Jonson says, without opening his eyes.

"I meant Marlowe's boyfriend, but that works, too."

"Which one?" Jonson asks.

"Don't tell me. They're all four of them shouting, and in about five minutes, one of them will decide they need a sword to demonstrate, and then we can go call a doctor?" Kit says, not quite bothering to make it a question.

"More or less, yeah." Edward says, and then sits down next to Jonson, yawning loudly.

"Will said I should apologise to you for last night, and if you want to take revenge, he's totally supporting you in it." Kit says, wanting to get that out of the way as soon as possible.

"Thanks," Edward says, and then adds, "I did think of something. Really, I'm just waiting for everyone else to get here."

"You need an audience?"

"Mostly, I need a video camera…"

Kit doesn't sigh, and doesn't run away screaming, which is something he is currently perfectly happy regarding as success.

It takes another some moments of silence in which Kit is left to contemplate his impending doom, and Edward seems to be trying to find some part of Jonson to serve as a decent pillow, while Jonson seems rather intent on braiding his hair. It would be funny on any other day, but right now, Kit is far too busy trying to keep his panic at bay to feel any sort of entertainment or amusement.

***

His dire fate eventually arrives, accompanied by loud arguing, with Richard carrying a camera and a bundle of towels and clean clothes, and the other three carrying buckets of something Kit doesn't want to know about.

Edward clears his throat, and when Kit turns to look at him, he smiles reassuringly.

"Nothing bad will happen, trust me. I'm sure you've heard about that ice-bucket challenge, though?"

Kit nods, refusing to believe his instincts on what is or isn't going to happen next.

"So, you are going to hold still, and we will pour several buckets of ice-water over your head, and film it, and you get to nominate a number of people to do the same, and it's all for a good cause. So, really, it's exceptionally efficient, and we get to polish our image a bit, and maybe you might even acquire some more admirers, what with ending up all wet and shivery."

It's more a reflex than a conscious decision that has Kit turning to leave, but he forgets to factor Jonson and Edward into the equation, and so finds himself held down and immobilised before he can put any actual distance between himself and the ice-water.

"I said, you are going to hold still," Edward says, "Can you do that on your own, or do you want help?"

"I'm not going to let you pour ice-water over me, fuck off." Kit tells him.

"You're going to need some help then."

What happens next happens too quickly for Kit to keep track properly, and there are too many pairs of hands involved, so by the time he is no longer being shoved around, his hands are tied together over his head, and fixed to the contraption they use to hang Coriolanus at the end of the play, and someone had been considerate enough to remove his shirt and his shoes.

"So what is this, some sort of sex thing? You get off on this?" Kit asks, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he could get some reaction from Edward, maybe distract him for long enough that the water would warm to a more acceptable temperature, or even long enough that they really should get back to work, and they'd have to do it some other time.

Instead, Edward smiles at him. "Oh, Marlowe. Scared about some water? Weren't you taught that you shouldn't dish it if you can't take it?"

"I was trying to keep you from falling asleep on stage!"

"Yeah, and you were also trying to get some sort of revenge for reminding Shakespeare that I totally slept with you. And I'm guessing there was also something about the fact that you are suspicious of people who take longer than roughly three minutes to shower and change clothes."

"That's not true!" Kit protests.

Edward shrugs. "Doesn't matter, really. You're still going to get drenched."

He starts fiddling with the camera, leaves for a moment to find something to serve as a vaguely stable surface to place the camera on, and then, apparently pleased, he says "recording now," and picks up one of the water buckets, and wanders back to Kit.

"Anything else you want us to know, Marlowe? Who'll be the next to share your misery? Who nominated you? Are you going to be donating any money?"

"Fuck you." Kit says.

"Anything else?"

"Well, if you're going to undress me and then make me take a cold shower, I do have a first name, you wanker."

"Anything else, Kit?" Edward asks, smile sticky-sweet, and rather suspiciously flirtatious, "You know, if you don't nominate anyone right now, you have to do it after the ice-water, so you'll have to remain cold for even longer…"

"You, fucking wanker."

"Oh, but I did it already, didn't I?"

"Do it again, then."

"Now that would be against the rules."

Kit makes a face at him.

"Certain there are none of your friends you would like to see wet and naked?"

And Jonson actually starts laughing at that, and Nashe manages to say, between badly suppressed giggles, "What makes you think there are any of us he hasn't seen wet and naked yet?"

"Not much of a motivator that, then?"

"Well, not much if they were right. Kyd? Fancy a cold shower?"

Kyd glares at him. Loudly. "I hate you. There will be consequences. Bad ones."

"Right. So, dear viewers, Kit Marlowe just nominated Thomas Kyd. There will be consequences," Edward says, and picks up the first bucket, "Now, though, time for revenge." And with that, he upends the bucket over Kit's head.

Kit clenches his jaw, and refuses to make any sort of sound, because he does have some pride and dignity left, and screaming would ruin it, so he will not do it. He is, however, careless enough to let his head tilt back, a reaction to pain that has somehow turned into a strange sort of reflex, having grown far too used to trying to look away from various wounds and injuries. Of course, this time, it does not help in the least, as the next bucket of water just ends up running directly over his face, and he is surprised enough for a moment that he ends up inhaling some of it, and he doesn't quite have the energy to suppress the resulting coughing fit.

"Fucking goddamn fucking wankers, was that really fucking necessary, you fuckheads?" he manages to force out, between chattering teeth, and when he draws a breath to add some more gratuitous insults, the last bucket is poured over him, and he decides that right now, dignity is for other people, "Fuck you, fuck every single one of you, I will have some fucking revenge for this, fuck you so much, I did not agree to this, I don't fucking care about any fucking good cause, no one should ever have to be that fucking cold, fuck's sake, somebody get me a fucking towel, or I will fucking kill you, slowly, enjoying every fucking second of it. I will put fucking ice-blocks into your beds, and make sure you won't have any warm water, and if you put that fucking video anywhere near the internet, I will fucking castrate you, and maybe cut off your goddamn head, and put it on a fucking spike on the fucking city gates, and I will hurt you, you understand, you wankers? I will fucking…"

He is interrupted by someone forcing his head back, and simply pouring something into his mouth, and he is almost ready to spit it out again, when he realises that it's warm, and it tastes of chocolate, and really, he can't complain about that, really not.

Someone is standing behind him, carefully untying his hands, and wrapping him in a towel, and then wrapping him in a blanket, and yet another one of them is apparently busy trying to take off his trousers, and Kit just grins at that, because those morons should have considered the fact that wet jeans are some of the most annoying and unmovable clothing to exist.

And then someone removes the blanket around his shoulders, and he would complain, but then said blanket is being replaced with a deliciously warm hug, and he decides that he could just relax and enjoy this while it lasts. It's only the beginning of August, but the weather did take a turn towards cold and nasty, and he's tired enough to feel cold even in full sunshine, and right now, the only thing he wants is to be warm again. And he isn't going to try and scare away anyone trying to help him in that endeavour.

He doesn't know how long he stands there, being cuddled, and he can't bring himself to care, feeling sleepy and warm and safe, for what feels like the first time in years, and maybe it's not what Will meant by it, but there might be something to the idea of being cruel to be kind, after all.


	3. Geteiltes Leid ist halbes Leid: Thomas Kyd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quincey and Nimblr did the beta reading, so they are awesome and deserving of much praise and cuddles. Also, this chapter would not have happened without them. So they are, therefore, extra awesome.

It's just past noon before Tom finally feels like he can breathe properly again. Seeing Kit half-naked and dripping wet in jeans that were already indecently tight all on their own had not been a good thing for his peace of mind. And while he appreciates what Shakespeare and Alleyn are trying to do, he really doesn't want to be touching Kit, especially not a Kit who is clingy and cold and tired and softly pliant and who hums quiet noises of appreciation against the sensitive skin of Kyd's collarbones.

Sometimes, he wishes he could be more like Nashe, could be secure and certain in the knowledge that none of this was going to affect him even in the slightest, but apparently it wasn't to be. He doesn't know if he's being tried or being punished, but either way, he always promises himself that he would do better next time, wouldn't think of those things, wouldn't wonder what it might feel like, wouldn't hope that maybe, one day, Kit might be just a bit too tired or a bit too drunk to keep his distance Tom clings to so desperately.

Because if Kit would just… then Tom could follow his lead, and the next morning, he could make his apologies, and pretend it never happened, but he would know, he wouldn't feel lost and alone and helpless anymore, because he would know what it felt like, he would at least know what he was going to hell for.

But Kit won't, and Tom knows better than to wish or ask for it, because he would hate himself, and he would hate Kit, and curiosity is not worth losing his best friend. So he keeps quiet and distracted, and pretends things are perfectly fine, and if he sometimes flinches when someone steps too close, when someone reaches out for a hug, he tells himself no one will notice.

Of course, that was before today, before Alleyn returned his shirt, and before Alleyn smiled at him, and then hugged him, and told him that things would be fine, he shouldn't worry, it was only another two and a half months, they would get through this, and then everything would be fine.

Tom had taken the t-shirt, had put it on, desperately needing an armour between himself and the world, and only then had he noticed that the rough cotton didn't smell of his cheap detergent anymore, but instead of Kit and Alleyn, a rather curious mixture of two different soaps and aftershaves, and Tom had sternly told himself that he would wash the shirt tonight, and he wouldn't fall asleep with his face buried in it until that smell was gone. He wouldn't. 

Instead, he and Nashe are eventually sent to obtain yet more sandwiches, and Kit is left trying to explain to Burbage and Alleyn that subtle and careful might work perfectly fine for Shakespeare, but it won't work for him, and it won't work for that particular play. On a normal day, Tom would love to just sit and watch Kit work, watch him spin magic out of ink and dreams. But today is anything but normal, and Tom feels too fragile and close to breaking already, and he can’t help but feel grateful when Nashe takes his hand and drags him along on a quest for sandwiches. 

Tom clings to that small touch, because it doesn't mean anything, Nashe is never going to take it any further, is never going to be any sort of temptation. The thought is enough to leave tears of shame rising to Tom's eyes, because it's not supposed to be like that, he should be able to resist temptation, he should have some sort of self-control, instead of having to rely on his friends to keep him from doing what no one should ever do.

Of course Nashe notices, and he doesn't say anything, doesn't offer Tom a handkerchief, doesn't try to get him to talk. Instead he just steps closer, slinging an arm around Tom's waist, holding him as close as he can while still determinedly walking somewhere, and Tom realises he hadn't been paying attention, hadn't listened to a single word Nashe had said, too much concerned with his own failings and sins. Adding pride to lust can't help, and he is too far from Kit's cheerfully fatalist acceptance of his damnation to forgive himself this thought.

So he slings an arm around Nashe's shoulder, and forces a smile, and says, "Sorry, I was thinking. Where are we going?"

"Lunch."

"Where?"

"Somewhere."

"Helpful."

"Well, you're the one who has been looking like somebody told you we'd skip Christmas this year."

"I haven't!"

"You totally have. What's wrong?"

Tom shrugs. "It's complicated."

"You don't want to talk about it?"

"I don't know how."

"Something we should know about?"

"Maybe?"

"You haven't been stabbed, too, have you?"

"Getting stabbed might be easier than this."

At that Nashe seems to freeze for a second, before he grabs Tom's shoulders, forcing him to stand and face him, and there is something hard and dangerous in his eyes.

"You got five minutes to make a full confession."

"There is nothing to confess! I'll get over it, and I'll be fine! Kit and Jonson got over it, too. Just leave it be."

"…Yeah. Totally. Unbelievable how over it they got. Apart from the fact that Kit calls me about thrice a week, pretending he doesn’t need a hug or cuddles after yet another nightmare, and Ben still can't fucking stand upright properly, and they both jump if you touch them the wrong way, and if that's how you plan to get over it, I'm not having any of it. Now, talk."

"There is nothing…"

Nashe actually punches him. "Got that? That's nothing. And you tell me this bullshit again, we'll just repeat the process, until you get over your damn self, and we can talk. Try. Again."

"It's just… It's nothing one of you did, okay. I'm just. It's my fault, and I need to fix it myself, really. There is nothing any of you could do to help."

"You're underestimating us."

"I don't know how!"

Nashe heaves a sigh, but he doesn't seem inclined to punch Tom again, so this might well be progress. "You want me to just guess? And you go warmer or colder?"

It sounds like a perfectly silly and useless idea, something only Nashe could ever come up with, but at least then no one will be able to blame Tom if it goes wrong. "Sure." He tells Nashe, shrugging, and trying not to look too dismissive.

"Whatever it was, it started sometime this winter."

"Yes."

"And it's gotten worse, but not bad before today."

"Yes."

"And then something today happened that messed you up entirely."

"Yes."

"Can we do something to fix it?"

"No."

"Can you do something to fix it?"

"I. I don't know. I tried, but I just. I can't."

At that Nashe steps forward, hugs him, hard enough to leave him short of breath, and doesn't let go, even long after most people would judge the situation to have become awkward. "Tell us these things, then. Maybe we can help."

Tom clings to him, and whispers, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." over and over again, and he can't make himself stop, knowing full well it's the only thing keeping the tears at bay.

"Anything you can tell me to narrow it down?"

Tom shakes his head at that, pressing his face against Nashe's shoulder and trying to pretend that none of this is happening.

"You know that this might take hours if you're forcing me to do it this way?"

Tom shrugs.

"Anything? Interpretive dance? Pantomimes? Morse code? Sketches of stickmen with chainsaws?"

"Leviticus 20:13."

Nashe steps back at that, his whole body tensing, and Tom feels himself shatter at that, and he was expecting this, there is nothing at all surprising to it, and yet he is entirely unprepared for the sharp and helpless pain of his heart shattering to pieces.

"That's how you fucking feel about us? A fucking abomination in the eyes of god? And you're just fucking standing about, wondering how the fuck to get rid of us, so that your fucking god will hopefully forgive you, and punish someone else? I fucking thought we were friends! I loved you, you fucking dickwit, and so does everyone else of us, and we were fucking worried, and then you…"

And Tom isn't having any of that, because Nashe, of all people, should never have to feel like this, should never be ashamed or hurt or heart-broken because of something Tom did. "That's not what I meant, I would never, it's not your god, you don't have to, I didn't mean you should, I just. Do you have any idea what that feels like? When you know you shouldn't, when you know it's wrong, and you still want, and it's all wrong, and there is nothing you can do about it, and I just. What on earth am I supposed to do?"

"Well, maybe, to begin with, you could stop being such a damn fool."

"You realise that this is just a little bit more complicated?"

Nashe seems to consider this for a moment, and then asks, "You know what Ben usually tells me when I get those stupid thought-loops, and can't make myself stop freaking out?"

Tom shakes his head, not exactly curious, but grateful for the change of subject nonetheless.

"You can either have a hug or a blowjob. Which would you rather?"  
"What?"  
"Works a charm, every time."  
"But you're…"  
"Straight? Yes. That's the whole point."  
"Why?"  
"Got you thinking about something else, didn't it?"  
"Seriously? Jonson offers you blowjobs for distraction? What's he going to do if you ever accept that offer?"  
Nashe just shrugs. "Blow me, of course."  
"But he isn't. You're not. Why?"  
"Because he offered? It's not as though I'm ever going to accept, so it's not as though it mattered. Now, come on. Lunch."  
"Sandwiches?"  
"If you'd like."  
Tom lets himself be dragged along, and wonders if he should protest, because this has solved precisely nothing, and Nashe doesn't seem to understand the actual problem, or maybe he understands but refuses to acknowledge it, and he isn't sure what would be worse.  
They walk in silence for a while, and then Nashe starts fiddling with something around his neck, which Tom is fairly certain would be easier if he had both hands, but he isn't willing to give up the hand still holding his for the sake of mysterious and probably arcane fiddling.  
He keeps one eye on Nashe and the other on wherever they're walking, and it doesn't work too well, since with Nashe entirely focused on what turns out to be a necklace, this leaves them with just a quarter of their combined attention on their way, and Tom repeatedly has to keep them from making closer acquaintance with various trees and benches and pedestrians.  
They do, eventually, get to that sandwich place Jonson hates and everyone else loves, and once inside, Nashe drags him to a small table out of everyone's way and lets go of Tom's hand in order to get his wallet. He gets a short string of leather out of said wallet, fixes one of two small metal disks to it, and places it around his neck again. The necklace he had been wearing, along with the other metal disk still attached to it, he carefully straightens, and then gestures for Tom to step closer.  
He turns the jewellery for Tom to see, and his voice takes a tone as though he was reciting something once he has Tom's attention. "Saint Sebastian. Patron saint of soldiers, the plague-stricken, and archers. Generally handled as unofficial patron saint of LGBT people." His touch is careful and light when he places the jewellery around Tom's neck, and then carefully adjusts it so that the closing mechanism rests just over Tom's spine, and the charm rests under Tom's shirt, over his breastbone.  
Tom isn't sure what to make of that, and he's just trying to find the right question to ask when Nashe beats him to it.  
"I can't fix this for you, and I can't go changing what the Bible says, and maybe the church will never approve, but you have my father's blessing, at least, for whatever it might be worth to you."  
"Your father's blessing?"  
"He's a priest," Nashe says, shrugging. "Not catholic, but better than nothing, right?"  
Tom feels himself smiling at that, before he fully registers what Nashe told him. "What do you need Saint Sebastian for, then? You're not queer, are you?"  
Nashe actually blushes at that. "They got me a medal of Saint Genesius when I told them that I was going to be a writer, and then they met Kit, and Dad thought surely, one of my friends would sooner or later appreciate the gesture. And then they met Ben and Mum decided that Saint Sebastian had clearly been an entirely fitting choice."  
"You and Jonson?"  
"It's complicated."  
"So you actually needed that…"  
"No! I'm just confused, and I can sort through that. It's Ben. We'll work it out. After all, I'm not having existential crises of faith over the whole thing."  
Tom thinks to protest that assertion, and then realises he would be lying, and so settles for thanking him instead.  
Nashe smiles at him, and then draws a cross on his forehead, places a soft kiss on the exact same place, and says, "God be with you."  
And it's coming from a writer, a failed actor, a man who's about as holy as working on Sundays, but it's still a blessing, and Tom is desperate to believe, and desperate to be reassured, and willing to take whatever he can get under those circumstances. "And with you," he answers, because it's the right things to say, and it serves to express gratefulness as much as respect and understanding and hope.  
They stand like that for another moment, before Nashe steps back and claps his hands, and declares, "Sandwiches!"  
Nothing more is said on the subject, but Tom finds himself touching the small medal repeatedly for the rest of the day.  
***  
Kit's play goes smoothly and no one falls asleep halfway through, even though the blocking is still remarkably awkward, but by the time Alleyn and Burbage stumble off stage by the end of the second run, they look ready for a full weeks sleep. Kit isn't looking much better, and Will had fallen asleep the second he had some time to relax.  
There is no possible way Tom could convince Kit to get back home, now, not given how long that journey is, and Will probably doesn't even have a home anymore, the amount of time he spends at the theatre, and he's simply not close enough to either Burbage or Alleyn to feel comfortable making them go anywhere, even if it's just home. So he goes to find some more blankets, and hopes for something like pillows or inspiration to strike and let him find a way to make sure that no one will have to wake up feeling horribly sore on account of wooden floors.  
Instead, he finds Jonson, leaning against a conveniently situated doorframe, watching him cautiously. "We're not leaving them here. If we take the underground from Blackfriar's, it's half an hour's ride to Tom's place, we can sleep there. Will you come with us?"  
"I wouldn't want to cause any trouble," Tom says, and Jonson glares at him.  
"That wasn't what I asked. Will you come with us?"  
"Yes."  
It takes a while for them to convince Burbage and Alleyn that wooden floors are not suitable replacements for decent beds, and it would probably take another eternity to convince Will and Kit, but they're both tiny, and so he and Jonson can pretty much pick them up and just drag them the ten minute walk to the station.  
They make it to Nashe's flat without any major incidents, though Kit is mostly falling asleep where he's leaning against Tom, and Alleyn had to be rescued from walking into a lamppost on two separate occasions. Of course, that still leaves them with four grown men falling asleep standing up, and no beds for any of them, and Tom wonders if he should just go home and leave Nashe and Jonson to sort it out when someone presses two toothbrushes into his hand.  
"Here. Brush your teeth, get Kit to brush his, and make him at least take his shoes off. He and Will can have Tom's bed, Alleyn and Burbage can have mine. Which leaves you to share the couch with Tom. It’s not too big, but it does fold out. Can you handle that?"  
Jonson leaves him rather confused, holding two toothbrushes and nodding, realising too late that Jonson won’t be able to see him, and feeling rather silly. And it only gets worse, now that he has to convince Kit that no, tiredness is not an excuse for unbrushed teeth, please, when he realises Jonson’s plan doesn’t account for everyone. Everything in his mind is clamouring to fix that now, now, now, before Jonson can come up with an excuse, before he can run and hide, but he knows that first, he needs to get Kit to brush his teeth, and go to bed, before the exhaustion leaves him too hyperactive for sleep.  
Kit turns out to be surprisingly compliant, once he seems to realise that nothing else is expected of him, and he can just let Tom drag him places, and it doesn't take long before he and Will are settled on Nashe's bed, curled into each other, Will fast asleep and Kit trying his best to pretend.  
Tom leaves him to it and goes to find the kitchen, because if this conversation is to be had, they are going to need tea. Nashe, apparently, had the same thought, and they share a brief and awkward silence before Tom blurts out, "So where does Jonson sleep?"  
Nashe sighs. "He won't, if we let him."  
"So, will we?"  
"I'd rather not."  
"And what do we do instead?"  
"Talk him out of it, of course. You feel like trying?"  
Tom shrugs. He isn't too tired, yet, and it's still quite a while before midnight. "I can, if you want to get some sleep."  
"Thanks," Nashe mumbles, and then "Goodnight", and then he leaves Tom alone in the kitchen with two cups of tea and no idea how to proceed.  
Jonson shows up a few moments later, barefoot but otherwise still fully dressed, and he looks at Tom worriedly. "Tom said you wanted to talk to me?"  
"Where are you going to sleep?"  
"Excuse me?"  
Tom sighs. "Your plan. Where do you sleep."  
"I have work to do."  
"But you still need to sleep."  
Jonson shrugs. "Don't worry, I'll be fine."  
"I'm not the one worrying. Nashe is."  
"Tom? Why would Tom worry about me?"  
Tom doesn't punch Jonson. He doesn't shout. He pinches the bridge of his nose instead, and counts to ten, and then says, "He loves you."  
"He doesn't."  
For a moment, Tom considers starting a yes-no-yes fight, and then decides he might try reasoning first. As much as one can reason with Ben Jonson. "No, of course not. He makes you sleep with him because he hates you. Also, the only reason he's living with you is your ability to make coffee. And the reason you two are pretty much inseparable is because someone glued you together. Oh, and last but not least, the Saint Sebastian medallion his parents gave him has nothing to do with him having a major gay crisis about crushing on you. Of course he loves you."  
"He doesn't," Jonson eventually says, as though it was simply a matter of Tom having misunderstood him before.  
"And what makes you so certain?"  
Jonson reaches out cautiously, as though Tom might bolt, and traces a not entirely steady finger along Tom's necklace, a soft touch following the line of metal where it disappears under Tom's shirt, clenching a fist around a handful of cotton and a small metal plate.  
The gesture, unexpected and harsh by its nature, turns surprisingly tender, and Tom isn't certain what to say now, how to react, and so he stands, waiting, trying not to think about how the closing mechanism would probably tear if Jonson pulled hard enough, and he wonders if he should just volunteer and avoid the then-inevitable cuts and scrapes on his neck.  
"He gave you Saint Sebastian."  
"Yes?"  
"He never," Jonson starts, and then pauses, uncertain how to finish the sentence.  
Tom might not know much about Jonson, but he knows that this man never interrupts himself, doesn't engage in strange human emotions like doubt or regret, and he feels his heart break, even though he doesn't understand what is happening, thinks he might never quite understand. He does the only thing he can think of to fix this, hugs Jonson as closely as he possibly can, ignores how uncomfortably Jonson's hand presses against his sternum, and he hears himself talking, says, "It will be fine, it's fine, he loves you, everything will be fine." over and over again.  
Jonson is quiet for a long moment before he finally says, "You're aware that this isn't exactly useful?"  
"It's not supposed to be useful, it's supposed to be comforting."  
"It's not exactly comforting either."  
"Maybe you're just bad at feeling comforted?"  
"Or it might be that I am not in need of any comfort at the moment."  
Tom makes a sound that's two thirds disbelief and one third anger, and then just pulls Jonson a bit closer. "You're still holding onto that damn charm hard enough that your arm trembles, and you haven't killed me yet. I would think that to be proof enough that you need that hug."  
"Did it occur to you that you nevertheless might be the wrong person to provide it?"  
"Nashe?"  
Jonson tenses for a moment, and then almost reluctantly relaxes against Tom, and now that Tom knows and is paying attention, he realises that Jonson really is trying to subtly shift weight away from his leg, and he has to hide a smile against his shoulder, not willing to upset this careful truce they have found.  
And then Jonson sighs quietly, says, "His name is Tom."  
"So is mine," Tom tells him, smiling.  
"Yours is Thomas."  
Tom makes a sound that would be a snort coming from someone who could currently be bothered. "You better never, ever call me that."  
They are silent for a moment, Jonson slowly relaxing his grip, and resting more and more of his weight against Tom.  
"What's wrong with me then?" Tom eventually asks.  
"There is nothing wrong with you!" Jonson protests, and then shakes his head. "You're not Tom. You're as unlike Tom as any single person could conceivably be."  
"But?"  
"He gave you this. He is usually extremely particular about it, but he just handed it over to you, as though it meant nothing." He hesitates for a moment, seems to consider that last statement. "Or as though you meant everything."  
Tom laughs at that, mostly of disbelief and surprise. "Are you trying to say you're jealous?"  
"I am not!"  
"Right, right, you are feeling justifiably upset that the man you love handed over an object of deep spiritual and emotional significance to someone who isn't you, which is of course something entirely different."  
"That's not what I was trying to say."  
Tom just looks at Jonson for a moment, and then he realises what he had been trying to say, by not mentioning any of it, and acting like it was not happening, and probably never wanting to ever talk about it. "You're giving us space."  
Jonson doesn't say anything.  
"You're giving us space, because you think there is something going on, and you don't want to be in the way, and god's sake, Jonson, get your head together. He's your goddamn boyfriend, and I'm sure as hell not going to be messing with that."  
"Then why…"  
"Because I was apparently judged to be having a major or minor crisis of faith and identity, and Tom is probably the only one of us who's got that sorted out in a way that doesn't require committing every single sin known to mankind or living in complete celibacy and self-denial."  
"Oh," Jonson says, and then tries to step back, and Tom is not letting that happen.  
He knows far too well that if he lets Jonson leave now, they might never talk about any subject even remotely related again, and he isn't letting that happen. Jonson might be an unfairly reasonable and normal and reliable adult, and far too calm and steady to fit their group properly, but he is one of them, nevertheless, and Tom won't lose him over something as trivial as bruised pride.  
"Are you plotting to overthrow the government or should I be jealous that there is cuddling and I am not invited?" Nashe asks, more stumbling than walking into the kitchen, and looking almost demonstratively sleepy.  
"Maybe you should be jealous because we are plotting to overthrow the government, but not involving you in our dastardly plans," Tom says, and then lets go of Jonson. "But that can wait another day. I just worked out your sleeping arrangements for you, and it seems I have a train to catch now."  
"You don't," Jonson tells him, before he even finishes the sentence. "If you will insist on healthy relationships and emotional honesty, it is only fair you have to arrange yourself with the full consequences. I'm certain there is space on that couch for you as well."  
Nashe actually laughs at that. "Threesome, then?"  
Tom just sighs. "Seems like it."  
***  
The clock on the television set informs Tom that it's just past ten when he wakes up, and he is uncomfortably warm, and there seems to be something obstructing his breathing. It takes him several moments to remember where he is, and why.  
Next to him, Ben is still fast asleep, and Tom would feel odd, thinking about him as Ben, but they are sharing a bed, and unless he fully misunderstood last night's conversation, they might well end up sharing more than that. It would be weirder yet not to use his first name at this point.  
Nashe, unaffected by this shift of names for practical rather than personal reasons, has, in his unquenchable thirst for cuddles, managed to curl up half between, half on top of Tom and Ben, and he seems unreasonably happy for a man sleeping in such an uncomfortable position. Tom finds himself smiling, and then manages to free one of his arms enough to push away the blanket still covering most of everyone, and then decides that now he doesn't feel like he is melting at the edges, he might as well sleep a bit longer. He is rather comfortable, at the moment, after all.  
And then, of course, Kit happens. Tom doesn't notice him until it's far too late, and the Kit has already managed to sprawl all over them, grinning happily at Tom.  
"Are you cheating on me? Should I be jealous?"  
"Good morning to you, too," Tom replies, and does not think about what Nashe said last night.  
"No, really, are you cheating on me?"  
"Good morning," Tom repeats, just to be obnoxious, and also, because he wants at least a proper hello before he starts this discussion.  
"Yes, good morning to you, too. Are you cheating on me?"  
"Will you go away if he says no?" Ben grumbles, apparently still rather far from awake yet.  
Kit considers this for a moment, cheerfully declares, "No, probably not," and starts braiding Nashe's hair.  
"Then why, precisely, did you feel the need to wake him up?"  
"He was awake already. And I was bored," Kit says, as though that was a reasonable answer.  
It probably is, Tom realises, at least for the two of them.  
"And you could not think of a solution to this on your own?"  
"I did! I found Tom."  
"You woke me in the process."  
"And me," Nashe adds, gesturing illustratively and managing to hit Kit multiple times over the course of doing so. "If you wanted a hug, you could have just said so."  
"I don't want a hug!"  
"He wants breakfast. Or a dragon. Either works," Tom says.  
"There's breakfast in the kitchen, help yourself," Nashe says.  
Kit doesn't move.  
"Are you feeling lonely?" Ben asks, and Tom suspects it is as much a honest question as a not particularly subtle attempt at annoying Kit.  
"I don't feel lonely," Kit replies, utterly predictably.  
"Unless you are using it as a rhetorical device, you should not employ multiple sentences with the same syntactic structure."  
Kit makes a sound of disgust at Ben, and then declares, "Wonderful, you have just volunteered to keep me company. Breakfast!"  
It takes them several moments to untangle themselves enough for Ben to stand, and by the time they manage, there is no chance for any of them to go back to sleep, so they all end up in the kitchen, Kit opening and closing cupboards and drawers, without any apparent pattern or intention, Nashe providing a running commentary on everything Kit finds.  
Ben, meanwhile, determinedly and surprisingly successfully ignoring the two of them, sets the table around them, leaving Tom feeling rather superfluous.  
"You could attempt waking the others?" Ben suggests, after Tom has found himself in his way for the third time, "I'm certain they would appreciate breakfast, though not necessarily the company."

Tom goes, glad for the excuse to leave. There are too many emotions in that kitchen, and he knows that Kit will not like this new development, and for all he likes Ben and Nashe, he doesn’t want to have to lose Kit. And judging by how energetically Kit is making his presence known, the idea doesn’t hold much appeal for him, either.

But knowing Kit and Ben, they will have to work it out on their own, and he and Nashe might just have to wait it out.

He goes to wake up Alleyn and Burbage first, so that in a worst case scenario, whatever terrible consequences leaving Ben and Kit in a room containing various sharp objects might have, there would be people able to separate them again. Then he goes to wake up Will, because he is going to need some kind of emotional support, even if that support is going to be pretty much limited to someone standing next to him, sighing deeply, and occasionally taking notes.

Will however, to Tom's considerable surprise, is already wide awake and fully dressed, watching the door with a rather worryingly thoughtful expression.

"Your twenty-four hours have run out," he informs Tom. "Good morning, by the way."

"My twenty-four hours?"

"Ice bucket challenge. You have twenty-four hours to do it once you have been challenged."

"And why, exactly, are you keeping track of this? Shouldn't that be Kit's job? Why do you care?"

Just for the shortest of moments, Will closes his eyes, and his shoulders drop, and he looks horribly small and defeated, and Tom wants to fix this, wants to fix whatever made his friend look like that, before it's over, and Will is striding towards the door with a calm that leaves Tom reassessing his judgement of Will's acting, and his voice is perfectly steady when he says, "It mattered to Kit. And he has other things to occupy his mind at the moment."

Understanding hits Tom like a brick to the face, and he knows that any man who wasn't William Shakespeare would be jealous, might even be angry, but Will just concedes defeat, and shapes himself to fit any new world he finds himself thrown in, happy at his friends' happiness, and dismissive of any hurt he might suffer in its cause. And it's not right, in so many different ways, not when none of this would ever have been possible without Will, without his constant and steady presence, without being able to rely on him being sober and calm and there whenever they needed him, without him daring Kit on to ever greater displays of ingenuity and mastery.

They've left him out, as though none of what he did mattered, as though they didn't care, and they hadn't even had the decency to tell him, instead leaving him to realise himself, and just ignored that Will read people like others might read a book, and he was inevitably going to catch on.

They need to talk about this, he knows, as much or quite probably more than they needed to talk about Kit and Ben and their strange rivalry and possessiveness, but not now, not before breakfast, not when Will is anywhere within earshot, or possibly anywhere within the same city.

He's just starting to piece together some sort of plan when Alleyn and Burbage show up in the doorway, wearing identical expressions of worry and confusion, and it's only then that Tom realises that the only sound coming from the kitchen is a rather concerning silence.

"Should we intervene?" Burbage asks, clearly expecting some sort of guidance from Will.

"As long as they aren’t killing each other, I should think we would all be happier to stay far, far away."  
Tom isn't entirely certain how much of that statement is objective fact, and how much of it is motivated by Will's heartbreak and personal desire to stay as far away from whatever trouble he imagines happening, but it is sound logic, so far.

Of course, that is when Nashe appears, holding a collection of keys and wallets and looking rather upset. "We should be leaving. Now."

"Do we want to know?" Will asks, voice painfully blank.

Nashe looks at Tom, a strange sort of helpless confusion in his eyes, and Tom mouths jealous at him, and then, after a moment's thought, heartbroken.

Nashe nods at that, and then starts manoeuvring everyone towards the door, barely giving everyone the time to put their shoes on, and Tom decides to join Will in very much not wanting to know.

***

Three quarters of an hour later, they find themselves at the theatre, and breakfast turns out to be sandwiches and lukewarm coffee. Tom doesn't think it’s a fair trade-off, but no one else seems to care much. Burbage and Alleyn seem to have decided that it simply wasn't quite time to be awake yet, and Nashe is contentedly using Tom as a strange mix between cuddly toy and pillow.

Will is leaning against one of the pillars on stage, looking at his coffee forlornly and radiating misery loudly enough that Tom can't help but feel for him.

"Is there anything we need to get done today?" Tom eventually asks, after his coffee turns out to be boring, and the sandwich not worth the time spent dissecting it.

Will sighs, and manages to make himself seem even smaller and yet more lost, and says, "The ice bucket challenge, but maybe we need to wait for Kit."

Tom decides that this is not an acceptable state of affairs, and no matter how wonderful their current arrangement might be for them, making Will feel unwelcome and irrelevant is not the kind of consequence he is at all inclined to deal with.

"We don't. We have video, don't we?" Tom asks.

"Wait, you're volunteering for this?" Nashe says, incredulous.

Tom shrugs, and smiles, and manages to say something about ends and means, and boredom.

Nashe makes a face at him, and says, "Your excuses need practice."

Tom shrugs, again, emphatically.

Nashe makes some sort of sound, and then leaves in search of a bucket.

Will follows him, looking rather distressingly like a lost puppy, and Tom turns to Alleyn and Burbage, hoping for some form of reassurance or support. What he finds, instead, is carefully banked rage, and a rather clear promise of pain to come.

"I don't care what you did," Alleyn says, voice sharp and even and deceitfully quiet, "but you have roughly half a day to fix it before we do."

"And if we do, you are not going to like the consequences," Burbage adds.

It's not a threat, Tom thinks. It's a simple statement of fact, and Tom finds himself smiling before he can think better of it. It might not be the healthiest of support systems, but he feels at least marginally better about his current situation, knowing that Will won't have to go through this alone, even if he seems inclined to.

Of course Alleyn catches, it, and his quiet fury is suddenly not that quiet anymore. "You're happy about that? That was what you wanted? To hurt…"

And Tom holds up his hands, stammers, "No, no, promise, I didn't, we didn't, it was just, I," and when Alleyn relaxes again, he interrupts himself, tries to order his thoughts into something say-able, and manages, "We didn't plan this, I promise, and we are not excluding him, we are not. But this has been going on for less than twelve hours, and he is more than welcome to join, we just haven't gotten around to this yet, don't hurt anyone, okay? We'll talk to him, promise."

Burbage waves his hands, a gesture halfway between dismissive and reassuring, and says, "You better."

Tom nods, and then wonders what, precisely, he had just gotten himself into. Of course he would be glad to have Will around, and he knows that Kit would be rather enthusiastic, but it's hard to know what Ben might think, and Nashe might decide that one more would just be too much for him to handle. And to make such a promise, without even knowing whether Ben and Kit had settled whatever differences they might have had, without even stopping to think about it, just because it seems so obvious to him, might end up breaking this again, before they had any time to settle, and it would very probably leave them even more distraught and broken and lost than they already are, and Tom knows that this might be the end of whatever happiness and stability they had managed to find for themselves.

"Procrastination won't save you," Nashe declares, having returned with two buckets of ice water, and Will following behind him, still looking worryingly small and lost, hugging a bundle of towels and a camera.

Tom grins. "It was worth trying, don't you think?"

This earns him a kick in the shin, and a frown. "You won't try to follow Kit's example, will you? I don't think we've reached a stage in our relationship where I would feel comfortable tying you up yet."

A part of Tom wants to play along, draw this just a bit further, see if he can make Nashe blush, but he knows that now isn't the right moment, and unless they manage to get this sorted out, it might never be.

He stands, feeling rather more nervous than he thinks reasonable, takes off his shirt, and tries to think of something not involving ice water and heartbreak. He doesn't succeed.

"You have been nominated to do this by one Christopher Marlowe, Playwright and Poet," Will says, a perfect monotone, eerily like the voices from a car GPS. "You have failed to complete the challenge within the allotted 24 hours, and will as such be required to make a donation to a charity of your choice. Please specify the charity, and nominate the next person or persons to undergo this challenge."

"Can I nominate Kit?" Tom asks.

The other four manage to simultaneously roll their eyes at him, and Tom sighs, deeply.

"Can I just nominate no one at all?"

"That would be boring," Will tells him. "And no fun at all." There is something off about him, Tom notices, something uncertain underneath the playful demeanour, and against his better judgement, he decides to see if he can get it to come to the surface.

"Well, if you are so eager for this to continue, you can have the next turn," Tom says.

He is rewarded with a displeased glare, and something that might or might not have been an insult.

It's quiet for a moment, and then Nashe steps forward, gesturing threateningly at Tom with a bucket full of ice water. "Any last words?" he asks.

Tom shakes his head, clenches his jaw, and stares determinedly at his feet. He will not make Kit's mistake, and he will not be caught unawares.

The cold water still hits him like walking into a wall, and he just barely manages not to scream. He feels his shoulders tense, feels his body trying to lean away from it, and that will only make it worse, will leave him exposed to the cold and wet, so he manages to curl his shoulders forward, leans into the stream, tries to breathe through the shock, and it still is far from pleasant, but if he focuses on taking deep and even breaths, it is just about bearable.

Suddenly, there are hands on his shoulders, shockingly warm, and Will is pulling him close, heedless of how wet he himself will get, and someone wraps a towel around them, and Tom wonders if maybe this was nothing more but a thinly veiled excuse for people not Nashe to get their share of hugs and cuddles.

Someone is running a towel over his head, and Burbage tells him, "Don't think this means you're off the hook now."

Tom wonders vaguely if he should worry, and yet more vaguely how he might explain this to Nashe and Ben and Kit, but he is being hugged by four wonderfully warm and cuddly people, and someone has managed to divest him of the remainder of his wet clothes, and he is far too comfortable to follow such trains of thought at the moment.


End file.
